


reality

by itsmylifekay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, more on the hurt side of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: Steve wakes up screaming.Or at least, he wakes up trying to scream, the sound coming out garbled and choked in his throat, silenced by years of training and personal determination.





	reality

 

Steve wakes up screaming.

Or at least, he wakes up _trying_ to scream, the sound coming out garbled and choked in his throat, silenced by years of training and personal determination. The sheets are tangled around his waist and he struggles to kick them away, calming slightly when he feels the rush of air against his skin. There are tears on his face and he curses them quietly, takes deep breaths and urges himself to keep it together.

It’s no use to panic. It does nothing.

He glances at the wall, the darkened shadows of the room that he can see without lifting his head. Wakanda, then. He should be safe. He sits up slowly, blinks owlishly into the darkness before swinging his legs out of bed. His legs feel shaky when he stands, his head throbs and his sides ache, but he knows it isn’t real. The only injuries are in his mind, dredged up on nights like these when the past comes back to haunt him.

He goes to the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror. A stranger. He wants to punch the glass. He wants to ask T’Challa to remove the thing from his room.

He does neither.

Instead he goes and stares out the window, out over the muted jungle, stares until the sun starts brightening its edges, drenching it in orange and the promise of a new day. The world slowly wakes up around him.

The door opens behind him but he doesn’t turn, assumes it’s Sam with an invitation to breakfast. He debates whether or not to lie and say he’s already eaten.

“Steve?”

It’s not Sam’s voice.

It’s not Sam’s and Steve feels something inside of himself start to scream. His body is frozen but his brain is shouting at him that everything is wrong. He can’t bring himself to turn.

Footsteps draw closer and he refuses to focus on the reflections in the window, stares unseeingly ahead and wills the nightmare to be over. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought he was awake, only to wake up screaming a second time.

“Steve?”

The same voice.

_That_ voice.

Its owner crouches beside him and he swallows thickly. He knows it’s a lie. It’ll be more painful if he looks, if he allows himself to believe it.

“Steve, can you look at me?”

His breaths get quicker and he looks resolutely out the window, unseeing. He is alone. He is asleep. He needs to _wake up._

“You’re in Wakanda. The war is over. Do you remember?”

He chokes on the next inhale, eyes flicking briefly to the side despite his determination. But he just can’t help himself. To see that face, those eyes, one more time… he’d endure just about anything.

He turns his head.

It’s Bucky looking back at him. Bucky with long hair and haunted eyes, a metal arm and too much on his shoulders.

Steve feels the world fall out from beneath his feet. His chest is tight and his body is suddenly too large for his skin, everything is prickling, distant.

A hand grabs his shoulder, pulls him back, and he realizes he isn’t breathing, sucking in shallow breaths like he’s small and asthmatic all over again. There’s a broad palm against his back, a voice in his ear urging him to breathe, and Steve almost loses it again. It’s too much, too close. Almost like...

“It’s real, Steve.” That voice says, insistent. “I promise you it’s real.”

Just like they’d promised it’d be ‘til the end of the line. It’s almost comical how many times they’ve managed to break that vow and piece it back together again.

This time the hand is on his cheek, scalding with its warmth, thumb just barely brushing the edge of Steve’s mouth.

“Look at me,” the voice urges. Bucky’s voice. Bucky’s eyes. Steve chokes on a sob. “That’s right, let it out. It’s real. It’s me. I’m here.”

He rocks forward and a broad chest catches him, face hidden in the crook of neck and shoulder.

Solid.

Real.

Steve allows himself a glimmer of hope, shudders at the possibilities and drags in a shaky breathe. It smells like Bucky, too. He sits there and breathes him in, soaks in his presence, his touch.

It feels so perfect, so real, but he has to check.

He pulls back slowly, looks into the eyes already patiently waiting for him. “Buck?”

He gets a soft smile in return. “That’s right, punk. I’m right here.”

He looks down at his hand, five fingers. The letters on Bucky’s faded shirt are all where they should be. Reality slowly filters in around him.

Shame comes with it.

Bucky coaxes his face up again, eyes so kind and forgiving, but also hurting and Steve knows he helped put that there. He wants to apologize, feels it at the top of his throat, but Bucky beats him to it.

“It’s okay, Stevie.” He brushes his thumb across the soft expanse of Steve’s cheek. “I’m just glad I was back in time.”

It takes Steve a moment to get that, to process. Bucky’s been on a mission. Two weeks, some remote search-and-destroy in the south of France. Steve’s eyes sweep over him, he seems unharmed.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, reading Steve easily. “Not even a scratch. I heard from Nat that your op went well, too.”

Memories keep coming back like tidal waves and Steve rocks with them, eyes darting back out across the jungle. It looks so peaceful, quiet. _Too_ quiet. The war destroyed so many things.

“Talk to me, Steve,” Bucky takes his hand, metal slightly cool against his skin.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not fair.” He feels the grip on his fingers tighten, can sense Bucky’s eyes on the side of his face. “You have enough to deal with without adding my problems to the list.” He withdraws his hand. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

Bucky lets out a pained sound and before Steve can fully register what’s happening he’s being tugged from his chair and manhandled back to the bed. The sheets are still a mess from where he’d kicked them off and he falls sideways across the mattress. Bucky crawls over him, plants himself on Steve’s thighs and boxes his head in with both arms.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” he says lowly, “You are the best man I’ve ever known. And if you think for one second I’m going to let you fight your battles alone, then maybe I’m not the one with severe memory loss.”

Steve stares up at him, then slowly brings one hand up to thread in Bucky’s hair, twisting his fingers in the strands and tugging slightly. Bucky lets him, head tilting to the side, mouth slightly open. Steve can’t take his eyes away.

“Buck,” he says. “I’m not--”

“You _are_ ,” Bucky lowers himself further, until they’re chest to chest and Steve can feel nothing but Bucky’s solid weight pressing him down into the bed. “And even if you can’t believe it of yourself, I’ll tell you every day until you do.” He presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead and that’s it, the dam breaks.

Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, spilling over in messy streaks. His free hand tangles in Bucky’s shirt.

“I’m here,” Bucky murmurs. “It’s okay, Stevie, I’m here.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair a few more times, then carefully flips them over when it becomes apparent Steve won’t be done crying any time soon. Steve’s laid out on his chest, face tucked into his neck, strong arms hold him as he shakes apart.

He hears Bucky’s constant murmurs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”

But all Steve can think is:

 

For now.

 


End file.
